


crossed wires

by tealeafthief



Series: autistic aziraphale + genderfluid crowley [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ableism, Abuse, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Author is Autistic and Non-Binary, Autism, Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Homophobia, Internalised Ablesm, Sensory Overload, Stim Toys, Stimming, fatphobia, these two instances are VERY breif
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25135141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealeafthief/pseuds/tealeafthief
Summary: “Aziraphale,” they asked seriously, “do you know what autism is?”Aziraphale has always been a little odd, and a little different from the rest of Heaven. He'd never even considered there might be a word for it.((Aziraphale is autistic and has to overcome 6000 years of internalised ableism and emotional abuse, but it's soft I swear!))
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: autistic aziraphale + genderfluid crowley [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829674
Comments: 71
Kudos: 431





	crossed wires

**Author's Note:**

> CW: internalised ableism, EXTERNAL ableism, one very breif non graphic instance of violence, some incredibly breif bullying (homophobia, fatphobia), and also some food descriptors in case that's something you prefer to steer clear of!
> 
> It's all soft, and it's all going to be okay <3 I would love to write more autistic Aziraphale, you can pry that headcanon from my cold dead hands.
> 
> Stay safe x

Labels are a funny old thing for an ethereal being.

No, he didn’t technically have a sex, nor a gender, but he had always rather enjoyed identifying as male. Crowley was more fluid, enjoying going back and forth, in the middle or nowhere, but then that made sense. Crowley embraced change, thrived off of it. Aziraphale had never been as fond.

He also liked Queer. Bent. A friend of Dorothy. Gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Whatever. Technically, he had only ever loved Crowley (and whatever had happened with Oscar was between the two of them, thank you very much), and so to say he was Crowkey-sexual would be more accurate. And besides, he didn’t even really have a sex, so it was impossible to say whether the sex he was attracted to was trully the opposite or not. And Crowley was not always male shaped. But he liked to say he was queer. Liked the community it put him in, the community he had worked so hard to protect and fight for throughout the years.

Labels were complicated, but he liked them anyways.

So what were a few more?

* * *

It started with the stimming. Because yes, there’s a _word_ for the thing he did now. Humans were brilliant at that, coming up with words. The first time Crowley saw him stim was in Rome, as they shared a tray of oysters. They really had been so _scrumptious_ , and he couldn’t help it, running his hands through his hair and flapping them in delight, without fully realising he was doing so. Not until the rush of happy energy passed through him, leaving him in a smiley daze, that he saw Crowley staring at him from across the table, an amused expression on his face. 

“What was that?” He asked, not unkindly.

“Oh, I...it, uh…” He almost wanted to explain the endorphins and excitement that would flood him so suddenly sometimes that just _had_ to flap, or to bounce, or hug himself tight until it passed. The pure giddy joy of it, the kind that made him shake his head until he got dizzy. But he couldn’t find his words. He could feel his face burning red, and he loathed to look around to see who else’s attention he had captured.

“S’fine, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, angel. You looked like you were enjoying yourself. Good oysters?” Crowley asked gently (or rather, as gently as he was capable of being). Grateful for the change in topic, he dove into a small lecture about the breed of oysters they had been served, where they had been bred, and just what spices and marinades they had used to compliment the natural flavours _perfectly._

(Special interests and hyper-fixations, more wonderful terms from the humans)

Crowley had just listened, nursing his wine, and grinned. He hadn’t asked about the stimming again.

* * *

Gabriel was much less fond of it.

Aziraphale made a _very_ conscious effort not to give in to the need to stim whilst he was in Heaven, or in public in general, certainly not after the oysters. Not that happy stimming was something he ever got the desire to do in Heaven. Aziraphale, though he would never say it out loud, _despised_ the layout of Heaven. The big, white, wide open spaces, so bright it made his eyes hurt, with no cosy little corners, no books, hardly anywhere he could put his back against the wall, so that no one could-

Gabriel clapped his hand down heavily on Aziraphale’s shoulder, near his neck, and he squeaked, his body automatically jerking away from the unwanted touch. Gabriel looked bewildered, and laughed.

“Well hello to you too, sunshine, what’s gotten into you?” He asked, chuckling to himself. Aziraphale stepped away, his eyes downcast, fingers going to rub anxiously at the already heavily worn edges of his waistcoat. He didn’t say anything. “Hey, Aziraphale,” he snapped his fingers obnoxiously in front of Aziraphale’s face, “did you hear me? I asked a question. Cat got your tongue?”

_BadBadBadBadBad I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home-_

“Sorry, you startled me.” He squeaked out, desperately praying for his voice to stay loud and strong. “Can I help you with anything?”

Gabriel began to speak, and Aziraphale tried to tune out the bright lights, the other hushed voices that reverberated around the space, the thumping of his heart, unrelentlessly loud in his chest.

_BreatheBreatheBreathe for Heaven's sake what’s wrong with you, he just touched you, you silly thing, get yourself together-_

“...should be fine. That all square with you, Aziraphale?”

Oh, bugger. He hadn’t heard a word of it. He rubbed anxiously at the fabric between his fingers, and opened his mouth to try and speak, but nothing would come out.

“Of course it is!” Gabriel supplied when he said nothing. The Archangel sighed in what Aziraphale knew to be restrained frustration. “Ah, must have caught you on a slow day, huh champ? Could you leave your waistcoat alone, for Heaven's sake, it’s driving me crazy.”

Aziraphale reluctantly let go of his waistcoat, wringing his hands together instead.

“No, put your hands down, and would you look at me?” He sighed again, and it made Aziraphale wring his hands even tighter. “You know, sometimes I wonder if She crossed your wires when She made you.”

_Perhaps She did,_ he thought now. He knew he wasn’t like other angels, or any demons for that matter. Crowley never flapped his hands, or played with his clothes. He didn’t flinch away from unexpected touch or get bogged down by routines and traditions. He didn’t always hate being a bit different, but sometimes it felt very lonely.

* * *

“What’s wrong?” The demon asked him once, over the table at the Ritz. Crowley was presenting as female that day, dressed in an understated, silky black dress, to appease the standards of the Ritz. Aziraphale was eating faster than he normally would, not wanting to keep his companion there as long as he usually would whilst he savoured each bite, and trying not to focus on which food components he was eating in what order and in which combination. It was hard, and every now and then an unpleasant texture combination made him shudder. 

“Pardon? Oh, nothing! So sorry me dear, I don’t mean to take so long,” He fretted, his free hand going to his waistcoat, thumb and forefinger rubbing at the textured fabric.

“There’s no rush, angel, you just seem like you’re not enjoying yourself. Is the food okay? You usually like to take your time. Is it the new guest chef, not to your liking?”

“Oh no, I’ve so looked forward to this chef! They brought him in from La Truffiere, and you know they do such a _delightful_ oxtail parmentier with black truffle there, and I was so excited to see what he’d bring to the Ritz, and I collected all the food critic articles before we came…”

Aziraphale didn’t know how long he rambled for, his hands moving animatedly as his words became faster, until he ran out of breath, and saw Crowley still sitting across from him, still listening to every word. When Aziraphale stopped, she grinned.

“ _There_ you are.”

“Oh, my dear, I’m so _dreadfully_ sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble on like that, you must have found me so annoy-”

“Oh, shut up! It’s not annoying listening to you talk about things you like, angel. It’s the most like _you_ that you’ve been since we sat down. If it’s not the food, is something else wrong?” She asked, pushing her glasses down so that Aziraphale could see the confusion (and concern) in her golden eyes. Aziraphale sighed in defeat.

“I’m sorry, I...I know it’s not always easy to go out with me, that I can be picky and annoying and embarrassing, and I wanted so much to try to be normal today, but I couldn’t even do that without being disruptive.” He said, miserably, repetitively twisting his pinkie ring under the table. 

“Oh, bloody _He_ \- Aziraphale, when did I ever say it’s difficult to hang out with you? I’m a demon, remember? It’s hardly in my nature to spend my time with people who don’t interest me, is it?”

“Oh, well… I suppose not-”

“Yeah, exactly. And all that stuff about being normal, when have we ever given a fuck about ‘normal’, eh? You’ve never been ‘normal’, angel”, Crowley ranted, backtracking just slightly when she saw Aziraphale flinch, “and that’s not a bad thing! It’s okay, _good_ actually. Brilliant. I mean, you really think I’d be friends with a _normal_ angel?”

“Oh, but it must get _tiring_ ,” he sighed, “watching me take ten minutes over a bite of food to make sure the ratio of flavours and textures are perfect, and _then_ taking my time to chew the whole blasted affair.” Crowley shrugged.

“Not really. I like seeing you enjoy yourself. And besides, it’s _me_ who invites _you_ to lunch 90% of the time. Why would I keep asking you out to eat if I loathed your company, eh? Anyways, the longer you keep eating, the longer I may continue working my way through the wine list.”

Aziraphale chuckled at that, bringing his hands up to rub at his cheeks, then realised what he was doing and lowered them back to his lap, bringing one hand back up to pick up his fork and resume eating, this time slowly and carefully. Crowley didn’t mention it.

* * *

He still tried to keep it less obvious, tried to be more ‘normal’ when they went out together (‘masking’, a less joyful term), but he still very much enjoyed his time alone in the shop where he could curl up with a book he loved and rock and flap to his heart's content (he had books he would read over and over again, that he knew word for word, and he still got the same pure pleasure every time he went back to him). 

So yes, he did his best to stay normal, keeping his hands clamped tightly across his stomach or behind his back so that they were less likely to fiddle, and keeping his eyes on the pavement, or on the ducks. He liked ducks. But it wasn’t always so easy. Aziraphale had discovered some time ago that he did terribly badly in crowds. Crowley had teased him for choosing a Shakespeare play with virtually no audience for their meeting, but he did struggle to stand in the pit when everyone was packed in so tightly. And yes, admittedly London wasn’t the _best_ city for one not fond of crowds, but he loved it too much to leave. 

But some days he wishes he had fallen in love with a slightly smaller, less crowded city. He and Crowley, who had that day been male, were walking through Hyde Park for a change. It was the middle of summer, and the park was completely packed; everywhere was packed, in fact. London tended to go a little crazy when it got warm enough to take off your jumper. So they walked side by side, Aziraphale uncharacteristically quiet as his eyes darted around the park. 

Despite the heat, he was still dressed as he normally would, though he had forgone his beloved coat. Still, he could feel sweat trickling down his neck, under his arms, and it was making his nerves frayed. It wasn’t helping that the park was _very_ loud. Music was blaring from multiple individual speakers, meaning songs were clashing over each other terribly, and human voices muddied the air. It was all he could do not to clamp his hands over his ears. Crowley must have noticed his distress, because he came to a stop, and Aziraphale came to a stop next to him.

“You know,” he said carefully, “it really is _bloody_ warm out. Maybe we should head back to the bookshop, cool off. I’m sweating up a storm.” 

“Yes, well that’s what comes of wearing black head-to-toe.” He retorted, though his voice was much softer than it normally was. Crowley laughed, and didn’t mention that Aziraphale was equally, if not more, inappropriately dressed.

“ _Well_ , you gotta make sacrifices for style, angel. Come on, let's head back. Perhaps by some miracle there’ll be a bottle of Chevalier Montrachet waiting for us on ice for when we get there.”

“Oh, you wiley thing.” Aziraphale chuckled, feeling just a little more at ease already. He walked just a little closer to the demon as they headed towards the exit of the park. And that’s when it all went a bit pear shaped. 

“Oi! Is that your boyfriend? Hey, posh twat. I’m talking to you. That your boy toy?” Aziraphale froze on the spot.

_Oh, Lord. Not today, please not today._

There was already so much ready to set him off, and he could _not_ break down in front of Crowley. 

He turned his head just a little. The human was clearly drunk; it was only one in the afternoon, but that never stopped Brits from getting absolutely plastered in the summer sun. He walked (stumbled) over to the two of them, and he heard Crowley hiss under his breath.

“Come on, angel, let’s get out of here.” He said softly, making a move forward but not touching Aziraphale to try and hurry him along.

“Oooh, _angel_ , so he _is_ your boyfriend? Go on then, give him a kiss!” He goaded, following up with some obscene, wet noises. Aziraphale couldn’t resist as his hand shot up to cover his ears. It didn’t do him much good.

_Too much too much too much too much too much_

He distantly felt Crowley move to stand directly between him and the human, still taking care not to touch him, and Aziraphale could have cried with gratitude. Now that they were standing still, he could feel the sun beating down on him ferociously, and everything was so _loud_. It was getting harder to breathe.

“You,” Crowley growled through gritted teeth, voice low and dangerous, his hiss coming out in his anger, “are gonna wanna back away, or I sssuspect you’ll ssseriously regret it.” 

“It’s a free fucking public space, innit? Not gonna have an emo poof and his fat boyfriend tell me what-”

He was cut off as Crowley’s hand, with all the agility and lightning speed of his serpent side, shot up and grabbed the man's jaw, pulling him towards his face with startling strength. “Don’t you _dare_ -”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped out. He hadn’t been particularly loud, he hardly had the air in his lungs to speak, but it was enough to make him wince. Crowley was able to hear him, regardless. He turned, and his glasses fell askew. His eyes were full blow serpent. His gaze immediately softened in the face of Aziraphale’s suffering, and after a few seconds of internal conflict, he growled and snapped the fingers on his free hand, and the human dissapeared. 

“Where…”Aziraphale wheezed out, his breath caught in his throat. His hands were no longer clamped fiercely on his ears, just scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Don’t know. Somewhere _lovely_ , probably,” Crowley said, making an obvious effort to keep his voice low. “He’ll be back in a bit. Are you okay?” Aziraphale didn’t know how to _begin_ to pretend he was. He just weakly shook his head, his fingers digging harder into his scalp. “Right, uh, okay. Should we take the shortcut back to the shop then? Get out of here?” He asked gently, holding up a hand in suggestion of a miracle. Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut and nodded. 

In less than a second they were in the backroom of the bookshop, and the world was silent again. Mostly. The buzz of traffic outside and the general creaks and groans of a house well over 200 years old, sounds that were often comforting, grated at his frayed nerves. His hands pushed against his ears as much as he physically could, doing hardly any good at all, and he whined in distress.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley said as softly as he could, practically a whisper. Even that was too much, and he whined again, miserably. He saw Crowley’s brow furrow in thought, and then with a swift motion of his hand (not a snap of his fingers, considerate, even if he’d never admit it), a pair of understated, sturdy earmuff-looking things appeared in his hand. They were patterned with tartin.

“Put these on,” Crowley mouthed, and handed them to him. Aziraphale moved his hands away, wincing as he did, to take the earmuffs from Crowley. Through really, he didn’t see what good a pair of earmuffs would do-

_Oh_.

Nothing went silent, or even all that muffled, just turned down. The noise level, which sometimes felt like it was constantly at a seven or eight, and today a ten, felt like it was about a four. His ears no longer hurt, and he was able to focus a little more on everything else.

“Is that better?” Crowley said, his voice still low and soft. It didn’t hurt anymore. Aziraphale just nodded, not wanting to hear his own voice. “Right, okay, I’m gonna make you something to drink. Not wine, uh, cocoa! Angel loves cocoa, I’ll make you cocoa. Sit tight, yeah? I’ll be right back.” And with that he dashed to the kitchenette.

Aziraphale looked around for a place to sit tight, and selected his cushiest arm chair, removing his shoes with a thought and bringing his feet up to sit cross-legged. His clothes, clothes he often loved for their warmth and snug feel against his skin, now felt constricting and scratchy, and he waved his hand, dressing himself in a simple white undershirt, cream jumper and some softer, looser trousers. He still felt disjointed and uncomfortable, like his skin was too loose on him. He brought the heel of his hand into his mouth, teeth clamping down. It hurt a little, but it helped. One of his nervous habits reserved for the more stressful times.

He wrapped his other arm loosely around himself and chewed absently at his hand. He hated the way that man had spoken to him, hated the pointed remarks he had made, the disgust in his voice. He hated the irrational fear that he had sparked in him. Usually he could deal with humans like that with ease, but days like today felt like playing on Hard Mode, whatever that meant. He had heard Crowley mention it once. Normally he could brush off comments about his clothes, his company, his body. He had no qualms over any of these things, they were parts of his life that he loved dearly. Now his arm tightened around his stomach and he wished he was someone that people could look straight through. It had simply been Too Much at once.

Crowley strode back in with Aziraphale’s favourite mug in hand, full of sweet, warm (but not too hot) cocoa. He blinked a little at the change in outfit, but said nothing, to Aziraphale’s great relief. When he clocked the angel’s hand between his teeth, however, his face twitched.

“Hey, careful.” He grumbled softly, moving over and putting the mug down on the table next to the armchair, “don’t hurt yourself okay? Lemme just, uh...one second…”

The demon seemed to think for a moment, and then waved his hand to summon a small, black, rubber pendant on a string. It was flat and weighty, about half the size of Aziraphale’s palm. It was shaped like a duck.

“Here, this will be better than your hand. Erm, can I?” He asked, reaching his hand up towards the one in Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale didn’t think he could feel more humiliated, having his _adversary_ here taking care of him, making sure he doesn’t gnaw his own bloody corporation off in his panic. He nodded slowly, and allowed Crowley to take his hand ( _he’s gentle, Crowley’s always gentle, this is okay this is okay)_ from between his teeth. The serpent hisses a little at the teeth imprints left behind, deep purple that was swelling down to a dark pink. He passed his hand over the marks, bringing the skin back to normal. A needless, frivolous use of demonic energy.

“I’m fine.” He said no louder than a whisper, but even that was enough to make him cringe, and he shoved the new pendant between his teeth instead, and _oh_ , that helped more than he could have imagined. The pendant was tough, and was unlikely to break under his incessant chewing.

“Yeah, and I’m a bloody aardvark.” Crowley grumbled quietly. “S’okay that you’re not okay. I’m so... I mean...that guy was just an idiot, y’know? Just a dumb human. A clueless, narrow-minded bloody human.”

_Of course. He must have been a stupid human to think that there was something between Crowley and himself. They must like a right picture, the two of them walking side by side._

Aziraphale ducked his head down a little and nodded, gnawing absently at the pendent. 

“Right. Anything else I can do?” Aziraphale shook his head miserably. “Would you, uh, prefer to be on your own?” He nodded, and tried hard (and failed) to not feel guilty when he saw the incredibly brief look of disappointment on the demon's face. But the disappointment was quickly replaced with understanding, covered beneath that typical demonic smoulder. “‘Course, angel. Just, uh, give me a bell if you have any trouble. And drink your cocoa, before it gets cold.”

He turned and looked again at his mug, and he noticed for the first time that Crowley had topped his cocoa with whipped cream and a flake. Exactly the way he _had_ to have it on days like today. He turned back, his heart in his throat, but Crowley was gone.

* * *

The Apocalypse and the events leading up to it were, needless to say, a rough time. 

Aziraphale kept the duck pendant round his neck at all times after that day, under his many layers of clothing, always there when he needed it. Not always to chew on, sometimes just to hold between his palms, or to hang on his chest, weighty and grounding. He never took it out where Crowley or, someone _forbid,_ any of the Archangels could see it. But sometimes, he would just drum his fingers against his chest, and against the solid pendant, imbued with love and comfort. 

He agrees to help Crowley thwart the apocalypse, reluctantly, fighting the voice in his head that told him _this is all wrong_ and _you’re going to get into trouble_ . He ended up taking the gardening position at the Dowling residence, despite Crowley’s natural aptitude with green things; kids are messy and sticky and _loud_ , and plants are far more easily manageable. He didn’t have a natural green finger, and didn’t quite have Crowley’s unique methods, but it didn’t take long before he found himself fixating delightedly on the grounds of the manor. Keeping a plant alive was just another puzzle, all things considered, and Aziraphale liked puzzles.

By the time young Warlock’s 11th birthday came around, he even quite enjoyed himself, _especially_ when he got the opportunity to do some magic, which had been something of a special interest of his for many years. True, it hadn’t panned out as successfully as he’d hoped, and the kids hadn’t quite taken to it, but it was the best his ‘Harry the Rabbit’ trick had gone to date! The food fight had been less joyful, and he tried desperately not to cringe at the feeling of sticky, wet cream and cake coating his clothes and face. 

This had been quickly outweighed by the realisation in the car. A simple truth that launched the week from Hell (literally).

Wrong boy.

But it wasn’t until _after,_ after the bandstand and the confrontation with the Archangels, after the summoning circle and being screamed at in Heaven, after the airfield and after _Satan himself_ , not until he was in Crowley’s flat and in Crowley’s body, with Crowley in his, on his way back to a bookshop that didn’t exist anymore, that he let it happen.

The _mother_ of all meltdowns.

He was on his knees, on the harsh, grey floor in Crowley’s harsh, brutalist flat, tugging on hair that was not his, and trying his absolute hardest not to scream, not to smack his head onto the ground beneath him. His hands scrambled to his chest, desperately clawing at the tight, dark material, at Crowley’s skin, but of course there was no duck pendant round his neck, nothing to take the edge off, and he _could_ miracle another up but it wouldn’t be _his_.

_Not that it would be anyways because none of those clothes are yours, not really. Adam just recreated them._

That made him panic harder, keening desperately, his face drawn in so tightly that it hurt, hot tears running down his face. His ear defenders too, he knew, would be gone, burned and melted away with the rest of his things; his books, his clothes, his record player and vinyls, his mugs. 

_They’re just things they’re just things they’re just things._

But they’re _not._ They weren’t just things. They were parts of him, little pieces of himself imbued with his love and protection (he was still a Guardian, after all). Things he had devoted his whole life towards. Things that kept him centred and calm when nothing else was right. Things that comforted him. Just _gone._

And now his old body was gone. And his new one had someone else inside of it. Madame Tracey’s body had been hard enough, but he had held it together. He’d _had_ too. But now he was just too tired.

His hands reached out to tug at the thin scarf tied around Crowley’s (his) neck, rubbing it between his palms like he was trying to light a fire, but it wasn't helping. He rocked and keened and drummed his fingers against the floor, eventually cramming his hand into his mouth and biting down, until he worried he’d be sending Crowley’s body back damaged.

He let his head hang down between his knees, trying desperately to get air into his corporation, to be normal, to not be whiny and weepy. To be Crowley.

_They could be coming for you at any time, they might come before you meet at the park tomorrow, you need to pull yourself together or the jig will be up. Crowley would never throw a pathetic tantrum like this. Crowley would never lose himself like this over some dusty old books and a rubber, childish necklace._

_Although, the poor dear had been so upset to lose his car…_

He got to his feet desperately, and paced down Crowley’s bleak, sparse hallways, trying not to think of Heaven, think of how _angry_ they’d be, when a half open doorway caught his eye. 

There was a bed.

Of _course,_ Crowley loved to sleep. It made sense. It was just something Aziraphale had never gotten into. He wandered into the bedroom, and found it to be really just that. A bed room. The whole room was just a large pillow fort, dark and stuffy. Aziraphale slipped off Crowley’s shoes, and went in, curling up on the mound of pillows, and _oh._ They smelled of Crowley. He took a deep breath, and found it came far easier.

Breathing in the scent of Crowley, he didn’t quite sleep, but rocked himself gently and mourned.

* * *

Crowley sat in Aziraphale’s body, waiting patiently for company. 

The summons back to Heaven had not quite been what he had expected. In broad daylight, for someone’s sake! And he hadn’t appreciated the grasping hands that had dragged him away, or the tape on his face. He knew Aziraphale wouldn’t have appreciated it at all. Not that he’d much appreciate the knock he took to the back of the head. His fists tightened where they sat secured to the arms of the chair. 

_Not here. Aziraphale wouldn’t lose his temper here._

He heard footsteps against the tile (or whatever otherworldly, ridiculously bright shit the floor was made out of) and he was joined by two figures; Uriel and Sandalphon, who stood together a good distance away. Well, two out of four at least.

“I assume the trial is about to begin then?” He asked in what was, to his credit, a spot on recreation of Aziraphale’s tone. He’d spent enough time around his fussy, fidgety, fastidious angel to know how he spoke, how he moved. How he reacted to certain stimuli. So when Sandalphon barked a harsh, high pitched laugh, he knew to wince. His angel didn’t like high pitched, loud noises. Or really any loud noises. 

“What would you need a trial for?” Uriel asked. “We already know everything we need to know, now we just move to sentencing.”

“The sentencing is the fun part.” Sandalphon added with a sickening grin. Crowley once again pushed down his anger and tried to look indignant.

“Well, really! Shouldn’t I get the chance to speak a little in my defence? You haven’t even read the charges! You know, in a federal court of law-”

“For Heaven's sake, Aziraphale, shut up!”

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and Crowley flinched accordingly. He turned, as much as his predicament would allow him, and met eyes with the Archangel Gabriel. Well, eyes met chest. Aziraphale was very choosy about eye contact. The Archangel, looking smug as ever, circled round to stand right in front of him, not keeping the distance that his colleagues had chosen. He smirked, his violet eyes shining with cold amusement, and dropped his hands onto Crowley’s bound ones.

“Maybe this’ll finally get you to stop fidgeting, or rubbing away at that mangy old waistcoat. Should have thought of this years ago.” He commented. Crowley cringed at the strangely intimate contact, and wondered how many times the real Aziraphale had done the same.

He wasn’t blind, despite what people first assumed when they saw the glasses. He didn’t read books, didn’t speak hundreds of languages or have an encyclopedic knowledge of whatever he was interested in at the time, not like his angel. He wasn’t a genius. But he wasn’t stupid. He knew his angel, he knew him a lot better than all these wankers put together.

He had looked after human children, who grew into human adults. He knew a thing or two about the human condition and the thousands upon thousands of forms it could take.

Yeah, Aziraphale wasn’t like other angels, or like any demons that he knew of. But as far as Crowley was concerned, that was a miracle in itself.

He felt the weight of the stim toy round his neck, under Aziraphale’s clothes, could feel the love emanating from it, love borne out of years of use and care. Crowley wasn’t blind, and he wasn’t an idiot. He knew what it was when he had given it to his friend. 

“Gabriel, good to see you.” He said, in that sad and strained voice he had often heard Aziraphale speak with when he was feeling overwhelmed. “Perhaps you could help me make sense of all this-”

“Oh good, so _today_ is one of your talking days. And here I was hoping you’d shut the fuck up when I actually want you to.” Gabriel growled, and Crowley startled. He had never taken Gabriel as a man who swore incessantly. “If you’re going to talk could you at least talk normally? Or are you going to spend the next ten minutes lecturing me about something no one cares about?”

“Well there’s no need for that.” He said, gently. Always bloody gently, even in the face of… well… abuse. Gabriel leaned in, and Crowley could feel his breath against his skin. If he was uncomfortable, he could imagine just what it would be doing to Aziraphale.

And Gabriel _fucking_ knew that.

“No,” Gabriel said, “no I think there’s every need for it, sunshine. See, we let you get away with a lot. You were the only angel actually _willing_ to stay down on that miserable rock, so yeah. We put up with your stupid clothes and your stupid books, your stuped fat _gut_ ,” he emphasised, moving one of his hands to grope invasively at Crowley’s stomach. “We even put up with your insubordinate behaviour. All this fiddling and fidgeting, never looking any of us in the eye when we’re speaking to you.” 

Crowley dropped his head down so that he was looking at his lap, both because he knew Aziraphale would do so, and because he was worried that the pure _rage_ that was coursing through him might show on his face. Aziraphale had always been a better mimic than he was. He was probably having a lot of fun Down There right now. Gabriel’s hand came up and grasped his chin, hard, pulling his head up to look directly at him. 

For a moment, Crowley was sure he was going to hit him.

Gabriel took a moment to visibly calm himself before he spoke again.

“Y’know, I always said She got your wires crossed. Something wrong on the assembly line. I used to think maybe Earth had corrupted you, but no, Earth just gave you more excuses to act like a child. You were always like this, always wrong. Made wrong.” Crowley swallowed, hoping to dislodge the lump in his throat.

“You’re suggesting... _She_ made a mistake? You would accuse Her of-”

That time, Gabriel _did_ hit him, and the sound that Crowley made in Aziraphale’s voice broke his heart. 

“Shut your stupid mouth. What could _you_ know about Her, about Her plans?” He growled, leaning into Crowley’s face.

“About as much as you do.” He retorted, hoping it wasn’t too out of character.

The two stared each other down. Well, Gabriel did most of the staring. Crowley focussed on not Snaking Out right there and then, on not ripping the Archangel Gabriel’s fucking throat out and going after Sandalphon and Uriel for dessert. He was close to breaking point when they were interrupted by a disposable demon, and a jar of Hellfire. On with the sentencing, then.

_No. I’ll get through this, angel, and I’ll bring your body back to you, and I’ll never let these fuckers touch you ever again, never let them even bloody look at you. This will be the last time they ever lay a hand on your corporation again…_

* * *

The bookshop was safe.

Crowley was talking about something or other, and Aziraphale was listening (or trying his best to), but that was the main thought that bound round and round his head like an excitable dog. 

_It’s all here it’s all safe it’s all okay_.

Once they had finished dessert at the Ritz (or rather Aziraphale finished both their deserts, whilst Crowley watched and smiled), Azirapahle had asked that they return to the bookshop immediately, and he had spent a good twenty minutes running his fingertips across the appropriately dusty shelves and tomes. He had fought to keep the sheer joy that had burned inside him to himself, although his steps certainly became bouncier without him meaning them to. 

Now he sat with Crowley, who earlier at the Ritz had asked for neutral pronouns for the day, two bottles of wine deep with a third already open, and Crowley was talking. Aziraphale had admittedly lost the thread, but they were certainly passionate about it. He caught “mantis shrimp”, and “bloody unfair amount of colours.”

He could have this. He could have Crowley’s ridiculous rants, and this delicious wine, and his wonderful bookshop, and Gabriel would never say anything about it again. No more assignments, no more reprimands, no more harsh voices and invasive hands and blinding white spaces of Heaven. It was too much to keep inside.

With the wine leaving him happy and light, and his freedom just as intoxicating, Aziraphale’s hands found their way to his light, fluffy curls, ruffling them with fingers just beginning to go numb from the wine, and just like in Rome over oysters, he flapped them giddily in front of him, giggling quietly. It had been _so_ long. He took a deep breath, bringing one palm to rub softly at his cheek, and let his other hand rest on his belly.

He didn’t notice Crowley had stopped talking at first, not until he looked up and saw them staring wide-eyed behind their sunglasses, their mouth ajar. His stomach clenched with anxiety for a split second, and he reached up to lightly scratch his nails against the duck pendant through the barrier of his clothes.

“Goodness, I’m sorry my dear, I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps I should sober up-” He stammered, his words a little slurred.

“No!” Crowey quickly interrupted, moving to sit on the arm rest of the sofa that Aziraphale was slumped on, still far enough to give him space should he want it. “I mean, you can if you want to. Just…don’t apologise, yeah? I haven’t seen you do that in a long time.”

“Yes, _rather_ a long time I should hope.” He mumbled, and he could feel his face burning up now. He hoped Crowley would believe it to be the wine.

“Why'd you say that?” Crowley asked softly, taking another deep gulp from their wine glass.

“Well, it’s rather unsightly of me. An angel, behaving like an adolesc...adol...a small human. I can’t imagine it’s pleasant to look at.” He said softly, aware that the wine was making his tongue loose. They had never _ever_ talked about it before, not like this. 

“Well, I think it’s nice.”

Aziraphale twisted in shock. Crowley stuck out their tongue like the word had left a bad taste in their mouth.

“ _Crowley_ -”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. S’not like I’m about to get a reprimand about it, eh? We’re celebrating, ‘think that’s worth a few four letter words. And besides, it _is_ nice. It’s always nice seeing you enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, please don’t tease me Crowley, not about this.”

“Hey.” They said sharply. They moved to sit on the sofa, as properly as they could with all those gangly limbs, and pointed an unsteady finger in Aziraphale’s directions. “I wouldn’t. Not about this. S’the truth. It’s nice when you’re happy, enjoying stuff. Why do you think I take you out for lunch so much? Your whole corporation lights up, Aziraphale. And your hands, they do the flapping thing, even though I know you try not to do it, and you do the happy wiggle, and the little noises…”

“Yes, I am aware,” Aziraphale cut them off, his voice brittle, “and I’m very sorry I’ve embarrassed you so much, but there’s no need to rub it in-”

“It’s cute!” Aziraphale blinked.

“What?”

“It’s just...it’s sweet! You...you look so _happy_ and you enjoy things so much, and you’re so bloody clever and passionate, you know all these little detaily things and it’s just....I’m not embarrassed by you, Aziraphale, I never have been. I mean, yeah, you _insist_ on calling a bicycle a velocipede, and you call music ‘bebop’, and the magic is a pain in the arse, but even then, you just....you look so....” There looked to be a great deal more that Crowley wanted to say, but they muffled themself with another swig of wine.

Aziraphale sat wide eyed, and quite suddenly overwhelmed. His eyes stung furiously, and his hand groped desperately at the pendant, not daring to take it out. No one had ever said anything like that to him. Oscar had waxed poetic, of course, but Oscar had always loved another. And besides, words had always been a very clever barrier for the playwright; he was very skilled at saying very little in as many, beautiful words as possible. Crowley’s words were short, blunt, and clumsy, but he knew every word to be true.

“I... It’s not _right_ , I mean, for Heaven's sake, I’m an _angel,_ I’m not meant to be like this, no other angels are like this! They’re all so normal, and they know what they’re supposed to say and when to say things, they know how to dress and what to do. Everything I do just ends up being wrong and strange.” He said desperately, shutting his eyes so he didn’t have to see Crowley’s face. “I... maybe... I know it’s unlikely, but perhaps something went _wrong_ when She made me. Perhaps She left out something important. P-perhaps Gabriel was right, and She just got my wires crossed, so to speak.”

“Bullshit.”

Aziraphale flinched just a little at the harsh word. Crowley continued.

“Utter bullshit, angel. I promise you. Nothing and no one is made _wrong._ Well, ‘cept maybe horses. Lotta fucked up biology choices in horses, if y’ask me. But _anyways_ , s’impossible. Like, yeah, you’re a little different, but so am I. D’ya think any _other_ demons go ‘round changing their gender round whenever they want? D’ya think _I’m_ a mistake?”

“Oh Heavens, Crowley, of course not, there’s nothing wrong with you! Besides, there are so very many humans who are the same, changing their gender and whatnot, not restricting themselves to male or female.” Aziraphale retorted fiercely, his embarrassment forgotten.

“Well, there we go, that’s my point! There’s plenty of humans like _you_ as well!” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed in confusion. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, there’s…they...you don’t…? Hang on, I’m gonna sober up for this.” Crowley grumbled, squeezing their eyes shut as they pushed the alcohol out of their body. Aziraphale nodded and did the same; loud noises were bad enough, no need to add a hangover into the mix. Crowley opened their eyes, blinking the cloud of numbness away, and turning again to Aziraphale, expression now serious and sober.

“Aziraphale,” they asked seriously, “do you know what autism is?”

Aziraphale was distinctly taken aback, and his shoulders hunched a little in defence. “Not entirely. It’s a human condition, isn’t it? Something children have.” He said, just a little bitterly. He had been called a child far too many times, and he didn’t want or expect it from Crowley. Something seemed to twitch in recognition on Crowley’s face and he grimaced.

“Human children become human adults, angel. It doesn’t just go away when you get older. And, well, a lot of autistic humans, children or adults, have a lot of things in common with you. Do you...know much about it?”

“I…not much, I’m afraid, my dear.”

“That’s fine, that’s okay. Is it okay if I tell you a little bit about it?”

And they talked, all night. Twice Crowley miracled up a book that they begrudgingly admitted to having read (what they didn’t mention was that they had read it especially in regards to Aziraphale), and pulled up a website that showed other stim toys, like the one Crowley had made for him. Autism was very much not just for children, and wasn’t what Aziraphale had been led to believe it was by his limited intake of information. 

Plenty of people had it, and no one who had it was quite the same as each other. Some were loud, some quiet, some didn’t speak at all, some were poets and artists, and some were great scientists, and some were just exceptionally good with animals or plants. Some, like him, kept more books than they could ever possibly count. Some couldn’t stand loud noises ever, and for some it depended on the day.

It was when Crowley started showing him the forums and facebook groups where people like him got together and talked about the things they loved and how they overcame sensory and social issues that Aziraphale began to choke up. They talked about the people who misunderstood them, most often family, who mocked them for the things they couldn’t help, tried to make them “normal”. 

It was one of these, where someone had spoken woefully about their mother who had physically restrained them to stop them rubbing at the hem of their jumper, that made Aziraphale burst into tears. Crowley’s face softened considerably, and they turned their phone off, shifting to sit across from him.

“Oh, angel. Is it, uh, alright for me to touch you right now?” Aziraphale nodded frantically, leaning towards Crowley who caught him in their arms, holding him gently and not too tightly, so as not to restrict him. Aziraphale nuzzled into them tight, sniffling and whimpering into their shoulder.

“I’m not broken,” he squeaked, as he gasped into Crowley’s shirt. “I’m not made wrong.”

“No,” Crowley replied, tightening their grip just a little. “No, angel, you never were. She made you exactly the way She was meant to.”

“B-but...but that means She made me annoying and weird-”

“No, nope, gonna stop you right there. Those are that wanker Gabriel’s stupid words, not yours. Remember the people in those groups I showed you? Do you think _their_ families were right when they said and did those horrible things?” A pause, then a small movement as Aziraphale shook his head. “Right then. No, you don’t have any human genetics, but if it fits, it fits. Just makes you a bit more human, is all.”

“Maybe that’s why She made me like this, and you like you,” Aziraphale sniffed. “If She did plan it to be like this all along, maybe it was in Her best interest to make us a bit more...human.”

Crowly hummed, pulling Aziraphale in just a little closer, lying back on the sofa so that the angel lay atop their chest. Aziraphale took a deep breath. _Autistic_ , yes, he would have to order in some new books. And perhaps see which ones were actually worth getting; he wasn’t sure he wanted something written by some of the awful people that the folks in the facebook groups had talked about. Nothing had changed about him, not really. He just had a label that explained it a bit better.

“Hmm, stupid bloody archangels. Nothing’s wrong with you, okay? You’re just...you. And that’s...it’s…”

“Ineffable?”

“Oh, shut up. I love you but I’ll be very happy to never hear that-” 

Crowley tensed under him, and Aziraphale froze. Surely, _surely_ he had misheard. Crowley had gone completely still, their arms stiff and unsure around him.

“Crowley?” No reply.

Aziraphale shuffled his way up so that he was sitting up on his knees, looking down at the shellshocked demon. Crowley’s mouth hung open. They didn’t appear to be breathing.

“You...you love me?”

“I...I…” Crowley gasped, with all the elocution of a fish on land. “Bugger, angel, I’m so sorry, I don’t want to...you don’t have to-”

“Even like this?”

At that, Crowley shot up and pushed back their sunglasses. “What?”

“I-I mean… I know you don’t mind a lot of it, the flapping and the chewing, I mean you gave me the chewing necklace, and you said you don’t mind the slow eating, but the other stuff?” Their expression softened considerably.

“Angel, It’s not that I don’t _mind_ it, it’s _you_ . And I... _love_ you, and so I love that other stuff.” They said in a rush, and Aziraphale swore he could see their cheeks turning red.

“But...w-what about when I...I say or do the wrong thing? I don’t always know what I’m meant to do.”

“You’re an angel, I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”

“I mean it! Or...or what if some days I don’t want to touch, or I can’t bear to hear another voice-”

“Then I’ll love you from further away, until you want company again. Angel, may I?” They said softly, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale took it gently. “You can keep finding things about yourself that I should apparently find, what, repulsive? But, angel, these are already things I know about you! I know you hate loud noises, and some days you hate them so much you won’t even speak. 

“And I know you sometimes don’t know what the “right” thing to say is, but whatever you say, it’s always the _good_ thing. And if you need me to be quiet, or to give you space, or whatever it is, I’ll do it. I’ll drive the bloody _Bentley_ slower if that’s what you need. But how could those things make me stop loving you when they were right there when I fell for you?”

Aziraphale sniffed. “I love you too.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Well...that’s…” Crowley tried to clear their throat, but their next words came out far more wobbly than they would have liked. “That’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

“I think it is.”

“Right then. I’ll keep loving you, with all your stims and your wiggles, and you keep loving me with all my pronouns and preferences. Does that sound like a good deal?”

Aziraphale chuckles.

“Tempter.”

* * *

Aziraphale was autistic, and that was really rather lovely.

Questions that had bubbled away in his chest for years finally felt like they had an answer. He wasn’t bad, wasn’t broken, and certainly wasn’t made wrong. 

He learned about stimming and masking and special interests, and he did so remarkably quickly, although Crowley had made sure to pull him away from his relentless study to rest his eyes and to bring him cocoa. He’d even had time to introduce himself on one of the facebook groups Crowley had shown him, which was nice, but ultimately he was still not a fan of using anything with a screen. 

They went out to restaurants and walked through the park and cuddled in the backroom over wine, and when Aziraphale was happy, he showed it. It had taken him a while to get over his internal shame and embarrassment, but the first time he had happily flapped his hands over a _particularly_ scrumptious angel cake in public without trying to stop himself, Crowley had ordered a second one without hesitation.

He still had bad days, when everything was Too Much and all he wanted to do was stay under a blanket with his stim toy, his ear defenders and a book he’d read a hundred times and whine his frustration and irritability away, but now Crowley was there to bring him cocoa and to speak softly to him, and to hold him tight and kiss him if he was feeling up to it.

That was another thing, the kissing.

Aziraphale had worried so much that he would hate it, that the texture and the noises would be uncomfortable and awful. But kissing Crowley soon became one of his favourite things to do. Little pecks in the morning, in the park, between bites of food, during boozie evenings on the sofa in the back room. Even on the bad days, when a kiss on the lips felt too much, Crowley kissed his head as he held him, or his beautiful, fidgety hands.

True to his word, Crowley was never bothered by Aziraphale’s quirks. Yes, he would steer Aziraphale away from a book if it had been longer than two days to make sure he was fed and watered, but he did so with an affectionate grin on his face. But really he acted as he always had. Because ultimately, he had been right. Nothing had changed.

No, genetically speaking Aziraphale had not inherited autism. But he was autistic. 

Diagnoses’ were complicated, self made or not. But he liked them anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if you'd like more autistic!Aziraphale short fics!


End file.
